For the Uniform
by Evenmoor
Summary: The NCIS team investigates the brutal death of a seaman in an alley in Washington D.C. - only to discover a second man, barely clinging to life. It's up to them to discover the truth of what happened that night to bring these men together. Case fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story is a heavily revised version my previous story, "Honor, Courage, Commitment." In particular, there is quite a bit more from the _Flashpoint_ side of things, as well as general clean-up, tightening of the plot, and revised description and dialogue.

I absolutely loved "Honor, Courage, Commitment," and thought it deserved to be revisited. I hope you like the results.

* * *

"Come on, Josh, it'll save us like ten minutes," the teenage girl insisted, dragging on the arm of her less-than-enthusiastic companion. "We gotta get back before the others wake up!"

"Hey, I just want to get back to the hotel in one piece. Dark alleys are where everyone gets mugged and stuff!" he complained as he glanced towards the alley nervously.

The young woman rounded on him in annoyance. "What are you? _Five_?" she taunted him. "This is D.C., not South-Central!"

"It's not actually called South-Central, you know. And, if you'd bothered to check, D.C. actually has some of the worst crime stats in the nation," he retorted. "We shouldn't've snuck out of the hotel in the _first_ place, Cath."

"Guess I was wrong, Josh. You're not five, you're _three_." She stepped backwards down the alley, grinning cockily.

The teenage boy swallowed, staring after her. "_This_. This is how I die," he stated before diving into the darkness after her after her. It stank of garbage and rotten fruit and something harsh and almost metallic.

He'd only taken a few steps before his shoe landed in something sticky. "Oh, I _so_ don't want to know what that is," he groaned. The next step was no better.

"Oh, come on, get a little gum on your shoe?" his temptress sneered.

"I'm definitely going to regret this," he muttered, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He used its light to illuminate the alley.

He very passed out right there when he realized that he was standing in the middle of a dark pool of blood.

"Oh, my God," the girl moaned, her eyes wide. "Is that blood? Omigod, you're standing in blood, Josh!"

It was everywhere - staining the pavement in pools, spattered across the brick wall, smeared on a nearby dumpster. Then he spotted the shoe.

"Cath, is that...?" He couldn't finish the sentence, so he just pointed mutely, full of dread.

The girl turned to see what he was pointing at.

Then she screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ding._

"So, what was this conference thing about again?" Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo asked his younger partner as they stepped off the elevator in NCIS headquarters.

Tim McGee sighed patiently. "I told you what, five times, before I left, Tony," he replied with exaggerated patience as they walked over to their desks in the bullpen.

"Well, then, you must not have told me _right_, McGee," the senior field agent drawled, setting down his bag and sauntering over to loom above McGee's desk (and, by extension, McGee).

McGee stared up at DiNozzo, all but rolling his eyes. "Maybe you should have gone, too. You might've learned something, Tony. They had people from all over the world here. There were some really informative lectures and seminars."

A sudden sneeze startled them both. "Glad you enjoyed yourself," mumbled Ziva David. Neither had noticed her already seated at her desk, but that was hardly unusual for the sneaky former Mossad officer. What _was_ unusual was the puffy face and red, irritated nose.

"You feeling alright, Ziva?" McGee asked the normally cool, graceful agent. In her current condition, she barely resembled the deadly assassin who could kill a man fifteen different ways with a paperclip.

"I feel just _lemony_, thanks for asking," she glared at the pair of them, clearly not appreciating the concern at the moment.

DiNozzo's eyes narrowed in bemusement at her malapropism. "I think you mean 'peachy,'" he suggested helpfully.

"If you're done discussing fruit," Gibbs glowered as he swept through, interrupting whatever response Ziva would have mustered, "grab your gear. We've a dead sailor in an alley. "

* * *

In the grey light of morning, it was easy to see that the alley was, quite literally, a bloody mess. Onlookers and rubberneckers stared in fascinated horror at the crime scene from behind the tape placed by D.C. Metro, a few of whom lingered to make sure no overly-enthusiastic civilians (or worse, members of the press) decided to cross the line.

"I was first on the scene," the young Metro cop swallowed, his face pale as he leaned weakly against the hood of his patrol vehicle and gripping a water bottle compulsively. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, at best, and that was being generous.

"First DB?" Gibbs remarked, though the answer was fairly obvious to the lead agent. The smell of puke lingered in the air, acrid and harsh and mingling with the sharp metallic tang of blood.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, ducking his head. "I saw his tags, and they called you guys right away. I didn't touch anything. It was, uh, pretty obvious he was dead." He glanced down at his shoes and realized the treads were caked with blood. "Oh, God!" the young man gagged, then stumbled off to dry heave against a wall.

"Yeah," Gibbs murmured as he followed the bloody footprints down the alley to the scene of the crime. McGee stood to one side, photographing the scene as DiNozzo sketched it.

"We've got mostly low to medium velocity blood spatter, along with some gravitational drops and pooling," DiNozzo gestured with his pencil. "This smearing on the dumpster looks like it was done by our victim as he collapsed."

The corpse of the victim half-leaned against the wall next to the dumpster; drying blood matted and stained his clothes, and his dog tags hung loosely around his neck. His empty eyes, already clouding in death, stared at nothing from out of a shattered face. "Whaddaya got, Duck?" Gibbs asked the medical examiner bent over the body.

"It was not a swift death, I'm afraid, Jethro," the Scotsman replied grimly. "Our unfortunate seaman lay here for several hours after being beaten rather savagely."

"Multiple attackers?" Gibbs inquired softly.

"It's certainly possible, Jethro, though I'll know more once we get him back and perform a full autopsy. I _can_ tell you that he did not go down without a fight. Note the injuries to his knuckles," Ducky said, pointing to the raw marks on the dead man's hands. "Oh, hello. What's this?" The medical examiner gently pulled on something clutched in one of the victim's hands. After several moments, it came free, revealing itself to be a wrist band with a gold plate. Blood and dirt caked by the man's hand obscured most of the writing on the plate, but a few letters were still legible.

**L.-G**  
**BA-2**

"Hello hello," Ducky said, examining the object with interest. Gibbs held out an evidence bag, and the Scotsman dropped the wrist band inside. "Identity bracelet, maybe?"

"Boss." Tony directed Gibbs's attention to something else nearby: a smashed cell phone. "Looks like it got thrown against the wall here. Explains why he didn't call 911 himself." McGee snapped several photos of the shattered device.

Ziva returned from where she had been interviewing the traumatized teenage witnesses, gingerly avoiding the blood pools covering the pavement. "The witnesses were taking a shortcut through the alley on their way back to their hotel. They're in the city on a school trip to observe the workings of government up close but decided to sneak out for 'a night on the town.'"

"Guess they 'observed' more than they bargained for," DiNozzo joked darkly.

"I have already bagged the young man's shoes as evidence," the ex-Mossad officer finished. Her face screwed up in a grimace, and she quickly grabbed a tissue out of her pocket just in time to catch a sneeze. With a sigh, Gibbs tossed her a packet of lozenges, which she caught instinctively.

"Don't contaminate the crime scene. Put on a mask if you have to," he ordered her as he turned back to the scene. "Duck, there's too much blood here for just this one guy, even with the head injuries," Gibbs observed.

Ducky glanced about and nodded. "I'd have to agree with you, Jethro. Likely, at least some of this belongs to his assailant or assailants. Oh, may we take the body now, Jethro?"

"Yeah, go ahead, Duck," Gibbs acquiesced. "Just don't disturb the blood pools."

"Jethro, would I ever do such a thing?" his friend teased him before gesturing to his assistant to bring the body bag. As they carefully maneuvered the stiffening corpse, they suddenly heard a quiet moan. Both Ducky and Jimmy froze as they tried to locate the source of the noise.

"This guy's dead!" Jimmy protested as he looked down at the body he was holding. "Isn't he?"

Then there came another moan, and a sudden hissing intake of breath. Jimmy blinked over his shoulder into the dumpster and almost dropped the corpse he was carrying. "Oh, my God!" he gasped in shock. "There's someone in there!"

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs roared as he climbed up onto the side of the dumpster. Tony thrust the sketch pad to Ziva and clambered up as well. The stench of the garbage nearly overpowered them, but then they caught sight of the top of a man's head, almost completely hidden beneath piles of trash. Dried and crusted blood matted the dark hair.

Without hesitation, DiNozzo reached down into the filth and helped his boss pull the injured man out, careful to support the head and neck. "We need paramedics over here!" he shouted. The EMTs who had been treating the young witnesses for shock rushed over with a stretcher, shoving the spectators aside and passing under the police tape without a second thought.

Within moments, the man was in the ambulance. It departed, sirens screaming into the quiet morning, as the onlookers, including the rookie Metro cop, stared on in disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Gibbs rounded on his team, shooting orders like rounds from a rifle. "McGee. I want a witness statement from that man. DiNozzo, finish up your sketches and then help Ziva check the rest of this alley for evidence. Go through everything. Especially the dumpster!"

"Oh, fun." Tony grimaced at the thrill of digging through the putrid garbage for potential evidence.

"Mr. Palmer!" Ducky called, snapping his assistant back to the present. "The body, if you please?"

"Yes, yes, of course, Doctor Mallard," Jimmy replied in a hurry, remembering that they were still holding onto a corpse. They set it down in the body bag and carried it back to their own gurney.

Gibbs gazed around the crime scene. Though the blood evidence had been trampled over by the paramedics, McGee had at least already taken photos of the scene. He wanted to throttle the Metro police officer for not finding the man in the dumpster earlier. They should have at least done a cursory search when they secured the scene!

Was the injured man the person who killed the seaman? Or another victim of the same incident? And who was he, and why was he here in the first place?

Too many questions, and few answers.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.


	3. Chapter 3

McGee arrived at the hospital not long after the ambulance carrying the wounded man from the crime scene. How had the guy survived as long as he did, McGee wondered, tossed like garbage into a dumpster, laying there for hours before they found him? From what McGee had seen before he had been loaded into the ambulance, the wound to the man's head did not look hopeful for his recovery.

As he waited for the doctors to talk with him about the man's condition, McGee briefly examined the personal effects collected from the John Doe in the emergency room.

There wasn't much. His clothes were not particularly distinctive: blue jeans; a dark colored T-shirt (now severely disfigured) emblazoned with an interlocking _T M L _logo of some sort; plus socks and fairly heavy-duty shoes. No cell phone, wallet, or watch. Had he been mugged, or had he not wanted to be identified? Was he a criminal or a victim?

"Special Agent McGee?" the ER doctor interrupted his thoughts as he walked over and shook his hand.

"That's me," McGee replied, setting the items down on the table. "What can you tell me?"

"Your John Doe's injuries are consistent with him being involved in a fight- mostly bruises and scratches to his arms. The only serious injury is the head wound. If he'd been brought in sooner, I might've been able to give you a better prognosis. It's touch and go right now - he's got some major cerebral edema, swelling of the brain. He's currently being treated with medication to reduce the swelling, but I'm concerned that if he needs surgical decompression, he might contract a serious or fatal infection. Basically, if the swelling starts to go down, I'm cautiously hopeful that he might be able to recover. He has his youth and excellent physical condition otherwise working in his favor."

"Did he say anything at all when he was brought in?"

"Nothing coherent; his level of awareness was very minimal. He wasn't really fully conscious in the first place. Frankly, I'm surprised he came to at any level," the physician marveled, shaking his head. "He has either one hell of a thick skull or unbelievable willpower."

"Okay, I'll need to take photos of him, and I'd like you to notify me as soon as he regains consciousness," McGee informed the doctor, handing him his card.

"Of course," the doctor nodded. "He's in the ICU now. You need someone to show you?"

"No, I know the way. Thanks anyway." McGee bagged the effects and grabbed his camera.

_Flash._

McGee photographed the man's stitched head wound from several angles, the shaved scalp livid with dark bruising. The (barely) less gruesome black and blue on his arms looked like defensive wounds from blocking heavy blows.

Then he examined the John Doe's hands, which were scraped at the knuckles. Looking closely, he saw the man's fingertips were scarred, many times over. The scars were faint and nothing too major, but remarkable upon close inspection, especially for the sheer number. More photos were taken of these.

The man's hands were callused in a strangely familiar way, but McGee couldn't quite place it. A tan line on his left wrist marked where he usually wore a watch, and a rather large, bulky one at that, but he showed no similar sign of a wedding ring.

Gently moving down the blanket, McGee then photographed the man's chest and torso, which told a very interesting story. More scars, these ones very faint and obviously old. Burn scars.

Who was this guy?

McGee snapped several shots of the distinctive face, framed by short brown hair made darker by contrast with his ashen skin. Aside from the stitched scalp, his head was relatively unscathed. What was this man like before this attack, McGee wondered? Even as he was, he was clearly a good-looking fellow, and appeared to be surprisingly muscular under all the bruises and scars. Whoever this man was, he had a story to tell.

With a slight frown, McGee finished up with with the photographs and pulled out his handheld scanner to take the man's fingerprints. Hopefully, he was in the system somewhere.

* * *

"Our original victim is Seaman Julio Ramirez, a computer technician stationed at Naval Weapons Station Seal Beach in California. According to his CO, he was in D.C. for the convention while on leave. Kid wanted to be a cop when he finished his hitch. Apparently he'd already talked with a few local departments." DiNozzo frowned at the face on the plasma screen.

In his file photo, Ramirez's face sparkled with life; the corners of his eyes were upturned with a barely-controlled smile. For a moment, however Gibbs could only see the clouded, blankly-staring eyes of the corpse back at the crime scene.

"...though, come on. Who flies across the country to go to a convention while _on leave_?" DiNozzo was asking rhetorically, "Besides McKnow-it-all, of course."

Ignoring her partner's irrelevant statement, Ziva picked up the narrative. "No immediate family, parents died in a car accident just after he joined the Navy. Since then, he's had good performance reviews from his commanding officers and he's never been in trouble or had any reprimands in his file." She grimaced, then blew her nose noisily.

"Basically," concluded DiNozzo, "he was a model sailor."

Gibbs gazed steadily at the face of the victim on the plasma. "Any word on the John Doe?" he asked.

"No ID yet; McGee uploaded his face and prints from the hospital. Abby's running them now," Ziva sniffled as DiNozzo used the remote to flip to the photos that McGee took of the John Doe. The stitches in his scalp were at least clean and neat, a definite improvement over the caked blood and filth.

"White male, 30s. Blunt force trauma to the head - docs say it could go either way at this point," Tony elaborated, wincing in sympathetic pain. He'd been there himself before. "No word on when he'll wake up, or if he even will."

Gibbs stared closely at the old scars of the unconscious man on the screen. The ring of his phone interrupted his silent interrogation of the images. "Gibbs," he said into the receiver. "Alright, Abs, I'll be right down. You two," he turned to DiNozzo and Ziva, "go check out wherever Ramirez was staying."

* * *

"Gibbs, Gibbs!" Abby Sciuto, forensic scientist extraordinaire, bounced up and down in excitement.

"What do you have for me, Abby?" he asked patiently as he walked across her lab to the table that contained the evidence from the alleyway.

"I've got a name!" she exclaimed, holding up a familiar object. It was the wrist band Ducky had discovered clutched in Seaman Ramirez's hand, now carefully cleaned of blood and grime. The gold plate practically gleamed, and the bold black letters clearly read:

**L. YOUNG **  
**BADGE 1902**

"A cop." Gibbs sighed. He hated getting involved with local LEOs; the squabbling, the credit-grabbing, and the withholding of information all made his job ten times harder. Especially if a cop were the victim or the perpetrator.

"Yeah, but I can't find any record of an 'L. Young' with badge number 1902 in D.C. or the tri-state area. I also checked with the local police agencies near Seal Beach NWS, in case our victim brought it with him from California, but no luck there, either. But since we had that big convention all last week, 'L. Young' could be from anywhere. California, South Dakota, Australia, Britain, Canada, South Africa, Langley-"

"Abs, if he were from Langley, they'd already be down here denying any knowledge of his existence," Gibbs gently interrupted her. "Keep at it. Anything else?"

Abby flashed him a huge grin. "I took a look the photos McGee uploaded from the hospital." She tapped several keys, pulling up the almost painfully vivid images on her plasma screen. "I'd say your John Doe handles _bombs_."

"What makes you say that?" Gibbs asked with a disturbed frown.

She helpfully enlarged the photos McGee took of the man's midsection. "These old scars on his torso are what you get from a bad mix blowing up. And when I say old, I mean _old_. I'd say more than a decade, maybe even two, which means he was probably blowing things up as a kid. But the ones on his fingertips-" She switched to the relevant pictures. "-these are the kind that you get from handling things like acid and circuit boards repeatedly over a long period of time. I already asked McGee to get me a swab from his hands to see if he's been handling explosives recently."

Gibbs smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "Good work, Abs."

"I'm not done yet!" she chimed gleefully. "This pipe Tony and Ziva found in the dumpster was definitely used to smack the John Doe. It corresponds to the wound on his head, and I found blood and hair consistent with him." She directed Gibb's attention to the metal object on her table. "Unfortunately, the prints are all smudged. I'm still working on getting something usable off it. Oh, and the cell phone from the alley definitely belonged to Seaman Ramirez - I was able to salvage his SIM card. Nothing useful on his phone to point us anywhere, though. Though there were a few calls to some rather naughty numbers-"

Abby whirled around, but Gibbs had already vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

"There's really no mystery as to how this poor boy died, Jethro," Ducky explained as Gibbs stalked into Autopsy. "Multiple blunt force traumas to his head and torso resulted in internal bleeding. But despite everything, he might have survived if only someone had found him sooner. What killed him in the end was an acute subdural haematoma from this blow to his skull, here." The medical examiner shook his head sadly as he pointed out the wound. "What a tragic waste."

The naked corpse lay on the cold metal table between them; now cleaned of blood and grime, the body sharply displayed the brutal extent of his injuries. Ducky gestured to the livid bruising on the young man's arms.

"These are defensive wounds here on his arms, as you can see. As I suspected earlier, our seaman put up quite a fight, and he did not go down easily. I already pointed out the injuries to his knuckles to you, back at the crime scene."

"Did you look at the photos McGee sent from the hospital?" Gibbs asked, pacing around the table.

"I did indeed, Jethro," replied Ducky, leading Gibbs over to the computer to pull up the images. "Your John Doe's bruising is fairly irregular and mostly limited to defensive wounds on his arms. My best guess is that his opponent was unarmed and fighting him with his fists." He momentarily assumed a pugilistic pose for emphasis before continuing. "However, this blow to the head would have rendered him unconscious almost instantly. From the pictures, I would guess that it was caused by some sort of rounded object such as a pipe or a baseball bat. And, as you can tell from the angle of the injury -"

"He was struck from behind," Gibbs concluded grimly.

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. "Either he turned his back to his opponent, who then picked up a weapon and struck him with it, or he was taken unawares by a second individual."

Gibbs frowned as he mulled things over. Thus far, they had not found any conclusive evidence of anyone else in the alley besides the dead seaman and the John Doe, but what they knew now did nothing to _discount_ the possibility. All that blood could have easily come from three as from two. Plus, there was something else: if the head wound had knocked the John Doe unconscious, how had he ended up in the dumpster? Seaman Ramirez could hardly be expected to heave him in by himself, given his own injuries. Putting it all together, Gibbs's gut told him that there was almost certainly someone else involved. "Got anything else, Duck?"

"Yes, I was looking over the photos of our John Doe when I saw some very interesting scarring on his torso and fingertips. If I were a betting man, Jethro, I'd say that, at some point, he had a very unfortunate encounter with a small explosive."

"That tallies with what Abby said," Gibbs half-murmured.

"Yes, but I was also spotted something else worthy of note while examining his hands." Ducky zoomed in on the image of the John Doe's right hand, focusing on the index finger. "You see that callus, here, Jethro?"

"Oh, yeah. This guy handles guns." Gibbs had one just like it, formed by many years of rubbing against the hard metal slide and trigger.

"And has done for quite a long time, to judge from the thickness of the callus," Ducky agreed. "I hope some of this helps you identify this man, Jethro."

"Yeah," Gibbs agreed in a low voice as he turned and left Autopsy.

* * *

Seaman Ramirez's motel room showed little sign that anyone had inhabited it for the past week. The bed was neatly made, and nothing was out of place; there wasn't even anything in the trashcan.

"He displays an admirable tidiness," Ziva said approvingly. "You could learn something from this, Tony."

DiNozzo examined the room in disbelief, turning this way and that in a vain attempt to locate _some_ speck of dirt or trash. "I've never seen a motel room look so... nice. It's unreal! Did Ramirez moonlight as Mr. Clean or something?"

Ziva bent down and glanced under the bed. "I found his suitcase," she exclaimed as she yanked it out and set it on top of the bed. She popped the catches and opened it; his luggage was fully packed, reflecting the same obsessive tidiness as the rest of the room. "It seems Seaman Ramirez was packed and ready to leave. Here's his plane ticket." She pulled out a pamphlet from behind the boarding pass in one of the pockets.

"Well, he was definitely at the convention," Tony remarked as he looked over her shoulder. "McGeek had one just like this on his desk. Hey, check it out! They had speakers from Scotland Yard!"

The former Mossad officer rolled her eyes and closed the pamphlet. "I find that hardly surprising, Tony, given that the London Metropolitan Police is one of the world's oldest modern police forces," she pointed out dryly.

"Ah, yes, the land of Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Morse," drawled Tony in a terrible faux-English accent as he checked the nightstand drawer, discovering it empty except for a Gideon Bible. Closing the drawer, he circled around in frustration. "I don't think there's anything to find here."

"For once, I actually agree with you," Ziva concurred, taking one last glance around. The room had not yielded any significant clues, and it wasn't long before the two NCIS agents departed with Seaman Ramirez's personal effects in hand.

* * *

About 480 miles away, Sergeant Greg Parker was tackling a mound of paperwork in the Strategic Response Unit briefing room at the headquarters of the Toronto Metropolitan Police. He rubbed the top of his bald head in boredom. _You've seen one DD5923 form, you've seen them all_.

The paperwork was one of the less-enjoyable aspects of being Team 1's sergeant. It couldn't be pulse-pounding hostage situations or bomb threats every day of the week.

For once, it had been a remarkably quiet week in Toronto, which could only be considered a good thing since Team 1 was down a man. Granted, they had Cochrane from Team 3 filling in, but it just wasn't the same. Putting together an exceptional group like Team 1 was an exercise in some mysterious, arcane form of alchemy. Some people just _fit_ with each other, and things seemed a little off-balance with Spike out of town.

It was times like this he really missed Wordy - he had always been one of the most level-headed people Parker had ever met. His departure had been hard on Team 1, especially since it had been so sudden and unexpected for most of them. And because of Parkinson's Disease, of all things. Wordy still shared drinks with the team sometimes, but...

And while Wordy's replacement, Raf, was a good man and an incredibly skilled officer, he was intense and just short of reckless, where Wordy was cool and calm.

Greg didn't begrudge Spike his trip, of course; the man had been talking their ears off about this convention for what seemed like forever, but with all the changes that had happened recently, Greg selfishly wished the younger officer hadn't left, even temporarily.

"Hey, Boss." Team Leader Ed Lane's entrance to the briefing room came as a welcome interruption to Greg's woolgathering, but it was obvious from the moment he appeared that something was wrong.

Ed had an intensity about him; most of the time, he kept it hidden or channeled it into a workout or firing range exercise. Now, however, it positively crackled around him. Greg didn't need to be his best friend to read the tension in his step.

"Yeah, Eddie, what is it?"

"You haven't heard from Spike, have you?" A simple question, but one layered with concern. Eddie's blue eyes seemed darker than usual, the stress showing in the lines on his face.

Greg set down his pen, brow furrowing slightly. "No. Why? He's not supposed to be back on the job until tomorrow."

Ed's expression didn't change. If anything, it became even more intense. "His mother called. She said that he never made it home this morning. I called the airline, and they said that he missed his flight."

"Did you check with his hotel in D.C.?" Greg asked in a level tone as a chill crept through his body.

"Yeah, I did. They said that he hasn't checked out yet."

This was totally out of character for Spike, as both Ed and Greg well knew. The man would never behave in such a fashion under normal circumstances, and especially not now, so soon after losing his father. As Parker shared a look with his friend, they both knew with grim certainty that something had happened to Spike.

* * *

_He was ten years old, home in bed, sick with the flu. His mother leaned over him comfortingly and held out a bowl of steaming chicken soup (always the perfect cure for any ailment in her book). _

_"There is nothing better," she always said. Just like her, to think that a bowl of homemade chicken soup could fix anything._

_His entire body ached as he leaned forward to take a sip. But just as his lips touched the spoon, it vanished - along with his mother, leaving him alone and shrouded in suffocating darkness._

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

And now we start to meet our friends from _Flashpoint_! For those not familiar with this Canadian show, it centers around a group of highly-trained police officers who specialize in crisis management, from hostage negotiation to bomb threats to high-risk warrant service, this team confronts all the most dangerous situations any cop can face.

For _Flashpoint_, this story is set mid-season 4, following the episode "Shockwave."


	5. Chapter 5

McGee entered Abby's lab, pushing the cart with the John Doe's effects, along with the various swabs and other samples he had taken at the hospital.

"It's about time you got back, McGee," Abby teased him playfully. "At least you brought me some presents this time."

He placed the bags of clothes on the table and handed her the other swabs and samples. "Do we have a name for the John Doe yet, Abby?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "and it's starting to annoy me. His fingerprints haven't shown up in any database so far. You'd think that someone who likes to blow things up as much as he does would have gotten fingerprinted at _some_ point."

"Well, now you have DNA to run, too," McGee cheered her, "and his clothes. Maybe they can tell you something."

Abby smiled flirtatiously at him. "They always do," she said as she stepped over to the table and pulled on some gloves. She opened the first bag, the man's shoes.

"Shoes are always a good place to start. They know everywhere you've been. Huh, now _this_ is interesting."

"What?"

"There's plenty of dirt and gunk in the treads, but only a little blood, plus these gravitational drops on top. It's odd, given the amount of blood pooling in the alley you found him," she explained.

"Maybe he was the first person injured," McGee suggested.

"Hey, I'm not going to do _your_ job for you!" she joked as she took a few samples from the treads. "These are sweet shoes, too. They're a good balance of cost to durability and comfort. They're fairly new, but they've obviously been put to a lot of use already," she observed.

"So he probably gets a lot of exercise," McGee suggested wryly. Abby rolled her eyes as she moved on to the next bag, the T-shirt. The garment had been cut down the middle during the paramedics' and doctors' efforts to save the man's life, but it would probably have been rendered unwearable anyway by the stains from blood and less savory substances from the dumpster.

"'_TML_,'" Abby read off the disfigured shirt. She smiled at McGee. "As T-shirts go, I've had less to work with," she explained as she turned away and started clattering away on her keyboard. "It could be anything, but I'll track it down in no-" She blinked when the computer returned a result almost instantly. "-time at all. Well, that was even quicker than I'd thought it would be."

She brought up the results on the screen. "'Toronto Maple Leafs,'" Gibbs read, startling both Abby and McGee out of their skins by his sudden appearance. "Canadian hockey team." He handed Abby a large cup of _CafPow!_ as he stepped over to the large plasma screen on the wall.

"Gibbs!" Abby chided him affectionately, "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

Gibbs merely stared inscrutably at her. "Check Toronto area for a police officer named 'L. Young,'" he suggested abruptly. "Especially anyone killed in the line of duty." That wristband they'd found, he'd seen things like it before. Memorials. Given that it was found in Ramirez's hand, it was a just hunch that the band belonged to their John Doe, but Gibbs's gut was rarely wrong.

"You do know we don't exactly have access to Canadian police personnel files, Boss," McGee pointed out. Gibbs shot him a withering look. "Right," replied the younger agent after a moment. He stepped over to the keyboard and began typing away madly. "Well, it can't hurt to try Google-" he muttered. "Oh."

"What is it, McGee?" Gibbs demanded impatiently.

Instead of answering directly, the younger agent simply pulled up his results on the plasma screen. It was an archived news article from a Toronto newspaper, dated a couple of years ago.

_SRU Officer Killed in Bomb Scare_

"Constable Lewis Young of the Toronto Metropolitan Police's Strategic Response Unit, Boss," McGee said finally, clearly affected. His eyes ran through the article. "He was killed by a booby trap during a bomb scare in Toronto two years ago."

"That's horrible!" exclaimed Abby, leaning over McGee's shoulder to read the article herself.

"According to the article, they were able to successfully remove the bomb and contain the situation," McGee continued before Gibbs interrupted him.

"McGee," Gibbs said softly. "The picture. Blow up the picture."

He focused on the image accompanying the article. "Oh," McGee swallowed uncomfortably.

The photographer had captured the immediate aftermath, just after the booby trap exploded. A dark-haired female SWAT officer stood sobbing in the arms of a taller man, while one of their compatriots simply looked stunned.

But what really caught McGee's eye, and no doubt that of the photographer, was the tableau in the center: a stocky officer wearing a ball cap and sergeant's chevrons had thrown one arm around the shoulders of another officer, who was kneeling on the ground with an expression of utter anguish and despair. Gibbs had already realized that it was the face of their John Doe, caught in a moment of total horror.

"'Despite the best efforts of the SRU, they were unable to disarm the device. Constable Young was killed in the subsequent explosion, though no others were injured,'" McGee read aloud.

A chill passed through Gibbs's body, and his mind involuntarily flashed back to the sight of Paula Cassidy laying broken and burned on the cold table in Autopsy. She'd sacrificed herself to save his team from a suicide bomber that day, and it took more willpower than he cared to admit to finally dismiss the image.

He stared at the newly-familiar face captured in the picture; he knew that expression, he'd felt that pain himself. It was the face of a man who failed to save a friend. "He was the one who couldn't disarm the booby trap."

"He's a bomb tech," Abby reasoned, comprehension dawning on her. It suddenly made sense now - the scars, the calluses, everything. "And he's Canadian, which is why he hasn't shown up in our databases."

"The question is, is he _still_ a bomb tech? And what was he doing here in D.C.? It's been two years since this article. He could have quit or moved on by now, or even gone bad." McGee remarked as his eyes quickly scanned the rest of the article. Unfortunately, they simply couldn't assume that this man was still on the side of angels. "None of the other officers are identified in the article, but now that we know that he worked for Toronto Metropolitan Police we can probably get a line on him."

Gibbs turned and walked out of Abby's lab without another word. It wouldn't take long now for McGee to come up with the name for their John Doe. The question still remained: why was a (current or former) Canadian SWAT officer in a D.C. alley with a Navy computer technician from Southern California? As Gibbs stepped into the elevator, he closed his eyes and looked at the anguished face of their John Doe in his mind.

How much had been left out of that article, he wondered? There was no faking the horror in that man's expression. Gibbs was all too familiar with it. Part of him loathed the photographer for capturing that moment of pain for all the world to see.

* * *

Before Greg and Ed could formulate a practical plan to find Spike, they were interrupted by something they both feared and hoped for: a phone call.

"Boss, I have a call from a federal agent in Washington D.C. on hold for you," Winnie said, confusion clear in her voice.

"Washington," Ed echoed with wide eyes and a meaningful stare. Greg felt his heart almost skip a beat.

"Oh, Spike," he sighed quietly, fearing the worst. "Patch the call in here, Winnie."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

NCIS agent Paula Cassidy was killed by a bomb in the fourth-season episode "Grace Period." Cassidy was played by Jessica Steen, who later played Donna Sabine (leader of the SRU's Team 3) on _Flashpoint_.

The photo McGee found online depicts the tragic closing moments of _Flashpoint_ season 2 episode "One Wrong Move."


	6. Chapter 6

The next step had been fairly obvious: get in contact with the Canadians.

McGee called the Toronto Metropolitan Police and asked to speak with the SRU supervisory officer.

They were only forwarded once, to the SRU extension, where McGee spoke with a pleasant female voice before being put on hold. It took less than a minute for the call to be picked up again - privately, Gibbs had been half wondering if they were going to leave them hanging for hours.

Gibbs had nothing against Canadians, per se, but almost every local police force he had dealt with during his career seemed to get tetchy when their officers somehow became involved in a federal case, never mind if the federal agency in question happened to be from another country entirely.

At Gibbs's signal, the screen in MTAC changed to reveal two men in black-and-grey tactical uniforms. Both were bald, but one was tall while the other was a bit shorter and more stocky in build. Gibbs immediately recognized the stocky officer from the photograph in the news article McGee had found earlier. This must be the team sergeant.

He also recognized something intimately familiar in the manner of the taller Canadian, who loomed behind the sergeant like a specter or guardian angel and held an energy and intensity in check with iron control. _Oh, yeah_ - that guy was definitely a sniper.

"Special Agent Gibbs, Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Washington, D.C.," Gibbs said by way of introduction.

_"I'm Sergeant Greg Parker, and this is Constable Ed Lane of the Toronto Metropolitan Police Strategic Response Unit,"_ the stocky officer replied in a level, even tone. _"What can we do for NCIS?"_

"You guys happen to be missing a bomb tech?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

Parker's face was remarkably composed, but Lane was far easier to read. Beneath that façade of control and professionalism, there was a boiling pot of emotions - and confusion was _not_ one of them. They most definitely _were_ missing a bomb tech.

_"__You've got us a little bit worried, Special Agent Gibbs,"_ Parker replied, his voice shaded with polite helpfulness. Gibbs easily recognized that they were being 'handled,' by a man in full crisis negotiation mode.___ "_We're willing to cooperate with you, but please tell us what is going on down there."

How well Gibbs knew that tone; in this case, 'a bit worried' no doubt meant 'very concerned.' Sergeant Parker was very good at controlling his emotions, but Gibbs had been at his job too long to be taken in.

"The body of a seaman was found in an alley this morning, beaten to death. Your officer was found next to him, and we're trying to find out what happened," he said baldly, watching for their reactions as McGee pulled up one of the photos that he'd taken at the hospital.

The reaction was immediate and intense.

_"What the hell - is Spike alright?"_ demanded the taller man, Ed Lane, stepping forward, his eyes blazing with anger and fear - honest concern for the well-being of a friend. Gibbs relaxed a little inside. He'd been hoping for this.

_"Ed,"_ Parker quietly cautioned his teammate.

"What was he doing in D.C.?" Gibbs asked as Lane settled back into place.

_"His name is Constable Michelangelo Scarlatti,"_ replied Parker immediately. _"He was attending a law enforcement computer forensics conference. Constable Scarlatti is Team 1's bomb technician and technical expert. He was supposed to take a red eye back to Toronto this morning."_ The bald sergeant paused a second, and Gibbs saw just a flash of inner fear in his eyes, peeking through his calm expression. _"How bad is he, Agent Gibbs?"_

"He's in a coma. The docs say that it's touch and go at the moment, could go either way. I suggest you notify any family he has," Gibbs stoically advised them, not one to mince words or give false hope. He didn't miss Ed Lane's expression of guilt and grief.

_"Thank you, Agent Gibbs. Is there anything we can do to assist with your investigation?"_ the sergeant asked earnestly.

"We'd appreciate it if you could forward his personnel file."

Parker nodded briefly. _"I'll see what we can do about that, though I don't think you'd find anything pertinent to your investigation. Scarlatti's a first-rate cop and a good man, through and through. He risks his life for total strangers every day he comes to work. I think you can appreciate that, Agent Gibbs."_ Parker gazed evenly at Gibbs, not budging an inch or qualifying anything in his total support of Scarlatti's character. _"Anything else we can do for you?" _

Now came the hard part; it was like pulling teeth without any Novocaine. "Any issues with Scarlatti? Drugs, alcohol, money or family problems?"

_"Spike's no monk,"_ Constable Lane spoke up, a bit of defensiveness in his tone, _"but he's got no problem with substance abuse, no money troubles and there're no relevant relationship issues that I'm aware of, though his dad died of cancer recently. It's been hard on him and his mom."_

There was definitely an undertone of _something_ when Lane mentioned Scarlatti's father, but Gibbs's gut told him that he wasn't going to get much more from these two on that count. "Does Scarlatti know anybody here in D.C.? Any contacts at all?"

Parker frowned and shared a look with Constable Lane, who shook his head. _"None that I'm aware of. He didn't say anything about running into old friends at the conference, either."_

_"And he would if he did,"_ Lane observed forcefully, turning his intense gaze on Gibbs. _"And Spike doesn't know any American Navy guys, either."_

_"Constable Scarlatti's a good cop, Special Agent Gibbs,"_ Parker stated firmly, placing clear emphasis on the injured man's rank. _"Every time we're called out to an incident, we put our lives in each others' hands. I think you know what that's like, how well you get to know a person, how much trust we have in each other. Find out what happened to him."_

"We'll do our best," Gibbs promised in a low, but earnest tone. "Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant Parker."

* * *

As the grey-haired American agent vanished from the screen, Greg shared a long look with Ed. They all knew the risks of the job, of course: that injury was pretty much inevitable, and death a distinct possibility. Jules, she had nearly died after getting shot, and then there was Lou, and Brian before him... Greg still felt a keen grief for both of them, killed in the line of duty and so unfairly young.

But it was different this time. Spike wasn't on the job; he was hundreds of miles away, in another country, and they couldn't charge to his rescue.

"Damn," Ed swore softly.

Greg grimaced; he felt the same as Ed, scared and frustrated and just plain helpless. "I need to talk to Holleran," he said in a low voice.

"You want me to tell the others?" his friend and team leader asked, worry written across his face.

After a long moment, Greg shook his head. "No, let me talk to Holleran, first. He needs to know about this." Holleran, as commanders went, was an intelligent and compassionate man, but he was still the commander. "Then I'll tell them, myself."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Spike does, indeed have relationship trouble - he briefly dated Sam's sister Natalie, though he broke up with her because he didn't want to affect his professional relationship with Sam. Ed was primarily thinking of Spike's tumultuous relationship with his father, which became important in the third-season episode "Fault Lines," when Dr. Toth pointed out that Spike's home life was distracting him from his job. However, because Spike's father is dead by the time this story is set, Ed doesn't consider the matter relevant anymore.

As mentioned previously, Lewis Young died in season 2. Brian was a member of Greg Parker's team prior to the events of the series, and was tragically killed in the line of duty when he hesitated to pull the trigger while facing a spree shooter. The story of Brian's death is a major subplot in the season 3 episode "Acceptable Risk." (Incidentally, Brian's lover was played by Lauren Holly, who also played NCIS Director Jenny Shepard on _NCIS _from 2005 to 2008.)


	7. Chapter 7

"We receive that personnel file on Scarlatti from the Canadians yet?" Gibbs demanded as he walked into the bullpen. Director Vance had been most insistent on an update - now that they'd determined that one of the victims was a foreign national, the situation changed somewhat, and Vance was not all that thrilled. Though Vance had been somewhat mollified by the Canadians' cooperation with the investigation, Gibbs was more than happy to leave the director to manage any potential political fallout.

DiNozzo snatched the plasma screen's remote from McGee's desk before McGee could pick it up. Half-hidden by a tissue, Ziva rolled her eyes at Tony's childishness as she joined them at the plasma screen, blowing her nose loudly. The senior field agent ignored her and used the remote to pull up Scarlatti's file on the screen.

"Michelangelo Scarlatti, a.k.a. 'Spike'. Been with Toronto Metro PD more than a decade. He joined the Strategic Response Unit in 2005 and specializes in bomb disposal and computer forensics. He's a bit like McGee, with a side of MacGyver."

Ziva shot DiNozzo a somewhat exasperated look as she held out her hand for the remote; DiNozzo handed it over almost unwillingly. Ziva flipped to a new page of the file, detailing a number of serious police incidents.

"The Strategic Response Unit, particularly Scarlatti's team, has had record numbers of high-risk call-outs over the past few years, and some high profile incidents, including one in which they took down an arms dealer responsible for a third of the illegal weapons trafficking in Toronto," she continued. "The most recent major incident was a bombing at a weapons tech firm. Several people were injured, one critically, but no one was killed, thanks in large part to the heroic actions of the SRU. Scarlatti received a personal commendation for successfully disarming the remaining bomb at great personal risk."

"Anything else?" Gibbs asked after a moment.

Ziva politely handed the remote to McGee, who pulled up a final page. "His file was flagged for review by Dr. Larry Toth, a psychologist. There's a note about Scarlatti's home life interfering with the performance of his duties." McGee frowned in thought. "When I was in Canada last year during that mess with Paloma Reynosa, the Mounties told me about this guy Toth. Apparently, he's notorious for being a team buster. Among other... things... Let's just say they didn't like him. Some of the things they said about him seemed, well, anatomically impossible."

"McGee..." Gibbs interrupted.

"Anyway, the note concludes that Scarlatti was cleared for duty pending a definite decision about his commitment to the team. That was last year, and no further action was taken. I guess he made up his mind."

"Other than that," DiNozzo concluded, "Scarlatti's got an unblemished record and has received nothing but positive citations. That backs up what the Canucks told you, eh?" He grabbed the remote back from McGee again, placing the photos of Scarlatti and Seaman Ramirez side by side on the screen. "So, to sum things up, we've got a model seaman and a model cop, from two completely different places, don't know each other at all, meeting in a dark alley in the middle of the night. One ends up dead and the other seriously injured. We missing something here?"

Gibbs stepped closer to the screen. Internally, he'd already classified Scarlatti as a second victim; his gut told him that Parker and Lane were right about their teammate. Therefore, he and his team _were_ missing something: the _perpetrator_.

"McGee, you and Ziva go back to that alley. Check for anything that may have been missed." He turned around to face his agents, who hadn't yet moved. "What are you waiting for? Go!"

* * *

_He was trapped under the Lewellen building - all exits cut off, collapsed by explosions. The bomb had only a few seconds left, and there were too many countermeasures blocking him from disarming it._

_He was choking with dust and terror, and his fingers shook over the infrared's keypad as he desperately stabbed at the numbers. 'Galina,' The code was 'Galina,' in alphanumeric, but his fingers trembled too much. _

_This time, he wasn't fast enough. _

_This time, the bomb exploded, and the darkness consumed him once again._

* * *

"I'm telling you, it's never a good sign when Ed gets monosyllabic on us. Something is seriously not right," Greg heard Sam say to Jules as the pair entered the briefing room. Ed had returned a few seconds earlier and seemed even more tense than before. Sam and Jules sat down next to Raf, who seemed just as in the dark as they were. Cochrane, Spike's fill-in from Team 3, sat on Raf's other side, looking completely mystified.

"Hey, Boss, this isn't about the Lewellen incident again, is it? I thought we covered and re-covered that. Everything was good," Jules asked in confusion.

"Look, I know you're all wondering what's going on, so I'm not gonna beat around the bush. Spike was seriously injured in Washington. He's in the hospital," Parker said bluntly, his heart twisting painfully in his chest as his words registered on his team, and their expressions changed from confusion to horror.

"What?" Jules exploded in appalled astonishment.

Sam's face was a mask of disbelief and shock. "What happened? He was going to some computer geek convention, not a drug bust!"

But it was Raf who asked the question they all were thinking. "How is he?"

Parker held up his hands to forestall a further barrage of questions. "I talked with the agent in charge of the case earlier. It's bad. He said that Spike was in a coma and that it could go either way at this point. They're still investigating what happened, but he said that an American sailor was killed."

"They don't think that _Spike_ had anything to do with that!" Sam fixed the sergeant with a steely, protective glare. Of all the members of Team 1, Spike would be the absolute last person any of them would suspect of murder. Despite the long, hard years he'd spent on the police force, and with the SRU, he always gave off the impression of being the baby of the team. Spike still had that wide-eyed wonder and optimism that had been crushed or leeched from most veteran cops, something Greg both loved and envied about him.

"I don't know _what_ they think, which is why I'm going down there myself with Spike's mom. I just cleared it with Commander Holleran," Parker replied to their surprise. It hadn't exactly been easy to convince the commander to let him go, but Greg wasn't Toronto's best crisis negotiator for nothing. Winnie, bless her, had already arranged the plane tickets for him and Mrs. Scarlatti. "Team 1 is on stand-down until further notice. Team 3 will be filling in as the on-call, Winnie's calling Donna and the others back in right now."

Cochrane, Spike's substitute from Team 3, nodded understandingly as he lay a comforting hand on Raf's shoulder. Raf, meanwhile, was trying his best to maintain his composure and look like he wasn't deeply affected by the news.

Greg hoped from the core of his being that neither of these two men would ever have to experience the death of a teammate.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

McGee was in Canada in the premiere of _NCIS_ Season 8.

In the _Flashpoint_ mid-season 4 episode "Shockwave," Spike successfully disarmed the bomb under the Lewellen building with the help of the bomber, who had wanted to get back at his former employers. Spike then rushed to be at his father's bedside hours before his death.

Team 3 is Donna Sabine's team. As mentioned earlier, Donna Sabine was played by Jessica Steen, who also played Agent Paula Cassidy on _NCIS_.

**_Flashpoint_ Spoiler Alert!** All of Team 3 met a tragic fate in the series finale of _Flashpoint_. By a bomb, no less, which is exactly the same way that Paula Cassidy died.


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Scarlatti was remarkably calm and collected when Greg and Ed told her what had happened to Spike; maybe the repeated shock had left her numb. It hadn't been more than a few weeks since she buried her husband after his long, debilitating battle with cancer. To learn so soon after that her beloved son might die as well, and so far from home...

Despite Greg and Ed's offers, Mrs. Scarlatti politely refused their help in packing her bags for the trip to Washington. The two men sat at the dining table, waiting in silence. There was a dark expression on Ed's face, and Greg knew exactly what his friend was thinking. While they might not be related by blood, surely Spike was just as close to them as any family either had ever known, especially for Greg.

Closing his eyes, Greg tried not to imagine how he would react if it were his son Dean in a hospital hundreds of miles away. They'd only just started mending their relationship after ten long years of separation; the steps they were taking were still painfully slow and small, but Greg wasn't sure he'd survive if Dean were snatched away from him again.

When Greg opened his eyes again, Ed was watching him intently. "He'll be alright," his friend said firmly, with a certainty Greg wished he could feel.

Greg's lips twitched slightly. "Yeah," he all but whispered, trying to convince himself that he believed it. Here, away from the rest of the team, alone with the one man who knew him best, he let his gnawing doubts and fears and grief crowd in around him. There was a very real chance that Spike would die, or would never wake up from the coma, or suffer permanent brain damage. It just wasn't fair.

_Why did it have to be Spike?_ Spike always looked for the best in people, the silver lining in every cloud; Greg simply did not want to envision his life with Spike torn out of it like this. Hadn't they all lost enough already?

"Greg. He'll be alright," Ed repeated in that soft tone he rarely used outside of the most intimate, personal of moments. "You gotta have faith, buddy. Spike'll pull through. It's all about motivation. He's gotta fleece Raf over that Juventus game, remember?"

It wasn't quite a laugh that escaped Greg's lips, but it was an improvement. "I tried to warn him about that," he half-mumbled into his hands.

Ed smirked affectionately; the newest member of the team still had a lot to learn, especially about his teammates. "Yeah, well, Raf's gotta learn sometime. Part of his introduction to the SRU."

"Juventus 101?"

"Exactly!" Ed replied, slapping Greg's shoulder affectionately. "Remember that time you won fifty bucks from Spike over that Leafs blowout?"

Now Greg really did laugh; Spike's game was soccer; he enjoyed hockey, too, but the Leafs were definitely Greg's area of expertise. "Got him a Leafs T-shirt with that money so he'd always remember not to bet against me when it comes to them." Greg looked up at Ed, actually smiling a bit. "Thanks, buddy," he said, his eyes shining.

"Do the math. How many times have you been there for me? For all of us? What're friends for, anyway?"

"What, you mean besides robbing each other blind over sports teams?" Greg replied wryly.

Ed couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

"Tell me what you've got, Abby," Gibbs said as he walked into her lab, DiNozzo trailing a few steps behind him.

"Not much," the forensic scientist replied solemnly as she turned towards them. A moment later, however, her face broke into an enormous grin. "Except for the fact that I just broke the case!"

"Really?" Tony's eyebrows came together in surprise. "Then you're doing better than Ziva and I did at Ramirez's motel room. We found _nada_ there. You wouldn't believe how clean that place was. The man was a _compulsive_ cleaner."

Abby's grin grew even larger and more gleeful at her success. "Well, then, Tony, I'm about to make you and Gibbs _ecstatic_."

She whirled back to her computer, pigtails twirling around her head. "Remember that pipe that Ziva found in the dumpster at the crime scene?"

"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forget it," Tony replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Well, then, Tony, I think you'll appreciate this even more," she said, tapping away at her keyboard. "I was finally able to clean up the prints on it, and guess what?"

"They don't belong to either of our victims," Gibbs stated, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Aw, Gibbs, you spoiled the surprise! You and your ESP," Abby seemed momentarily disappointed at Gibbs stealing her thunder, but threw it off a second later. "But you're right," she smiled brightly. "I just matched the prints to this guy, 'Little Bobby' Freeman."

A mugshot appeared on the plasma screen on the wall. 'Little Bobby' was a scrawny looking punk, grinning insolently at the camera. He had the sort of face most people would want to punch out of principle.

"He's been working up a bit of a resume with D.C. Metro, too. His rap sheet reads like a petty crook's Christmas list: disorderly conduct, petty theft, burglary, a couple of assault charges, and one armed robbery charge which was eventually dropped due to a lack of evidence. Get this: the victim refused to testify. His cohort in crime was this guy, Tom Cassidy," Abby continued, pulling up a second mug shot.

Cassidy was a burly ogre of a man, who stared straight ahead with an almost puzzled expression on his face.

"What is this, _The Princess Bride_?" DiNozzo remarked as he looked in amusement at the pair of mug shots on the screen. "It's like Fezzik and Vizzini, D.C. style! _Inconceivable!_"

Gibbs turned around and stared at Tony steadily.

"It's just that one of them's a little guy, and the other's practically a giant and..." Tony trailed off uncomfortably, shifting under Gibb's unblinking gaze. "Shutting up now, Boss."

"Anything else, Abs?" Gibbs asked, turning back towards the excitable forensic scientist.

She grinned in victorious satisfaction. "Just that both of them got picked up by D.C. Metro for possession of stolen property this morning at Washington Hospital Center."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Juventus is a top-flight Italian soccer club based out of Turin, Italy. The 'Leafs' refers to the Toronto Maple Leafs (TML) ice hockey team; Enrico Colantoni, who plays Greg Parker on _Flashpoint_, is a huge fan of the team.

What _NCIS_ story would be complete without at least one movie reference? _The Princess Bride_ is a movie based on a story by William Goldman. The Sicilian criminal mastermind Vizzini was played by Wallace Shawn, and his hired man (with a heart of gold), Fezzik, was played by Andre the Giant. Many people remember this movie because of the immortal lines of Mandy Patinkin's character: "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." And, no one can forget his quip to Vizzini, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."


	9. Chapter 9

"They hate us. I'm tellin' you, they hate us," Tony grumbled in annoyance as he and Gibbs idled in the D.C. Metro lobby the next morning. All the magazines were at least a year and a half old, though no doubt DiNozzo wouldn't have been so upset if they'd had the decency to stock Sports Illustrated. Gibbs knew better than to even bother looking at the reading material.

"They don't hate _us_, Tony," Gibbs contradicted him dryly. "They hate _you_."

Tony grimaced in annoyance; he and the Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police Department didn't exactly have an amicable relationship, and it showed every time the two agencies interacted. "Thanks for reminding me of that, Boss," he replied dryly.

"Hello, Agent wonderful to see you again," a familiar voice drawled. "Get arrested for breaking into any impound lots lately? Oh, Agent Gibbs, too. Pleasure." Detective Danny Sportelli sauntered out into the lobby, clearly taking his time and enjoying every second of it.

Tony plastered on his best used car salesman grin, no doubt wanting to irk the other man as much as possible in payback for making them wait. And the bit about his expunged arrest. "Ah, Sportelli. So nice to see you again, D.C. Metro and NCIS working hand-in-hand like the brothers in law enforcement we are. Well, believe it or not, you have someone we want."

"_Two_ people, Detective," Gibbs amended, fixing Sportelli with a steely glare. He didn't appreciate being made to wait around while Sportelli ate... whatever that was that he'd spilled on his shirt. Though he wished that DiNozzo wouldn't intentionally antagonize the man at this point.

Sportelli crossed his arms over his chest, almost reflexively hostile. "Look, Agent Gibbs, contrary to popular belief, the world doesn't revolve around you guys. We don't answer to NCIS," he snapped. "Who is it you're after, and why?"

Tony handed Detective Sportelli the file. "That would be none other 'Little Bobby' Freeman and Tom Cassidy, who you apparently have in custody for possession of stolen property."

The detective's eyebrows came together in a derisive frown. "Those two jack-asses? What did those idiots do to upset the Navy, anyway? Rob some blitzed sailor blind and leave him in his underwear?" Sportelli scoffed sarcastically at DiNozzo.

"They _murdered_ a sailor and assaulted a Canadian police officer," Gibbs impatiently interrupted. He definitely wasn't in the mood for a pissing contest between Sportelli and DiNozzo. There were infinitely more important issues at stake here.

"Wait, does this have anything to do with that 187 where they found a second guy in the dumpster?" the detective asked, his eyes narrowing. "Damn, that guy was a _cop_?" Sportelli sighed, deflating, and the aggravation and defiance seemed to drain out of him as he looked at the file.

"A _Canadian_ cop, so I guess he'll be the most polite assault victim you ever met - if he ever gets out of the coma," Tony quipped caustically. Gibbs was seriously tempted to slap Tony upside the head, but he refused to do it in front of Sportelli.

The detective, however, didn't seem to hear Tony's sarcastic comment. He simply closed the file and shook his head slightly. "Damn," Sportelli softly swore again, more to himself than to DiNozzo or Gibbs this time. "I haven't had the chance to go through all the stolen property we took off them when they were brought in. I have about a thousand other cases..."

"What can you tell us about these two, Sportelli?" Gibbs asked, interrupting the man's inner self-flagellation. He wasn't going to waste time while the detective beat himself up over this. Scarlatti's mother (and whoever doubtless accompanied her, though he'd bet good money on Greg Parker) would be landing in Washington shortly.

"I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, as soon as Little Bobby got together with Tom Cassidy. It was like the match made in hell. Little Bobby used to be into petty theft, small time stuff, but he had these delusions of grandeur. Then he made friends with Cassidy, and they came up with this routine. They would go down an alley, and Cassidy would pretend to attack Little Bobby, like a mugging or whatever. Some hapless would-be rescuer sees a big dude beating up on a helpless little guy, and _wham_! Suddenly, Bobby's not so helpless anymore, and you have to cancel all your credit cards after you get out of the hospital. We actually busted 'em for it once, but we didn't have enough to hold them. Smug bastards. Little Bobby's just got one of those _faces_, you know?" Detective Sportelli shook his head in frustration. "You got the evidence to nail them for this?" he asked grimly.

"Do fingerprints and DNA count as evidence?" replied DiNozzo.

After a moment, the detective smiled tightly as he handed the file back to DiNozzo. "They're all yours."

* * *

The flight seemed to last forever after Greg and Spike's mom boarded the plane, but in reality, it was probably only an hour and a half at most from the time they finally took off from Toronto after excruciating delays on the tarmac. Thanks to Ed's stubborn friendship (what had he done to deserve a friend like Ed?), Greg was back in control of his emotions again; Spike needed him, and so did his mother. By the time the plane landed in Washington D.C., the sun was peeking over the horizon. Somewhat to Greg's surprise, waiting for them just past customs was a man holding a sign that read "Scarlatti" in large, bold letters. The man was in his early thirties, wearing a suit and tie that seemed more expensive than one would typically expect for a federal agent, though the suit was clearly a few years old.

Standing next to him was an exotic-looking woman with long, dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. In contrast to her partner's attire, she was wearing a T-shirt and hip-hugging cargo pants. Both, however, had gold shields clipped to their belts, as well as SIG-Sauers at their sides.

"Welcome to Washington D.C.," the man said as they approached him. "I'm Special Agent Timothy McGee, and this is Ziva David. We're with NCIS." Both McGee and his fellow agent had dark rings under their eyes as hallmarks of a very long night. It was oddly comforting to Greg.

"Agent Gibbs told us to come meet you at the airport and take you to the hospital where Constable Scarlatti is," Agent David explained, her voice touched by an unfamiliar accent that Greg pegged as possibly Israeli, if her name was anything to go by.

He felt a swell of relief and gratitude at her words as he firmly shook McGee's proffered hand. Agent Gibbs's courtesy hadn't been necessary, but it was definitely appreciated. "Thank you, thank you both. And tell Agent Gibbs 'thank you,' too. I'm Greg Parker, Toronto SRU. This is Mrs. Scarlatti, Constable Scarlatti's mother."

Agent David nodded respectfully, though McGee smiled in open sympathy at the woman. "It's an honor to meet you, ma'am," he assured her kindly. "I really wish it could've been under better circumstances. Your son and I share similar interests. I was at the same convention he attended." McGee had an open, honest face; Greg had no trouble reading the genuine concern and kindness in his words. His partner, on the other hand, was far more closed off.

"Thank you, Agent McGee," Mrs. Scarlatti replied, her voice breaking slightly; she had barely said a word since Ed had dropped them off at the airport. She'd spent the entire flight fingering the beads of her Rosary and looking out the window at the gradually brightening sky. "If you love your work with the same passion as my Michelangelo, you must be a happy man, indeed. Now, please, take me to my son."

* * *

_The worst nightmares aren't nightmares at all._

_"Spike," he heard Lou say in his headset._

_"Yeah, bud?" he replied - he was so sure that Lou would be alright, the weight transfer would work. This was the job, this was what they did everyday. They'd go out for beers later, and laugh about how Lou was stupid enough to step on a booby trap. Everything was going to be alright. _

_"Lou!" he prompted when his friend didn't immediately respond._

_"It's gonna be okay," Lou said shakily, his voice cracking, heavy with tears._

_"Lou?" _

_Spike knew exactly what was going to happen a moment before Lou stepped off the landmine. He knew, and there was nothing, not a damn thing, he could do. _

_And then, all he could hear was the explosion which tore through his best friend, sending him flying through the air - though Lewis Young was long gone before his body hit the ground. _

_Spike couldn't hear anything else, not even the sound of his own scream. He was sure that he must have been screaming. _

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

"187" is police code for a murder.

Detective Danny Sportelli of the D.C. Metro Police appeared in _NCIS_ episodes "The Inside Man" and "Enemy on the Hill."

Lou Young's tragic death occurred in season 2, episode 10 of _Flashpoint_, "One Wrong Move." The short dialogue between him and Spike comes from that episode. It is one of the most poignant scenes in the entire series.


	10. Chapter 10

For Greg, seeing Spike in his bed at the hospital was surreal and heart-wrenching. Spike was always so animated - even when he wasn't pulling a prank or cracking a joke, or picking carpet fibers out of Babycakes's treads, he always had this happy energy, this _life_, about him. Even when delicately disarming a bomb, where the slightest wrong move would trigger a deadly blast, Spike was rarely silent.

He could still hear Spike's _sotto voce_ mantra of _Easy, easy, easy_ as he went after the bomb under the Lewellen Building.

It was just so _wrong_ to see Michelangelo Scarlatti unmoving and as pale as a wraith in a hospital bed. The stitches and gruesome bruises on his shaved scalp stood out like inky blotches on blank paper. The two NCIS agents politely gave Greg and Mrs. Scarlatti some privacy, excusing themselves to get some coffee.

The ICU doctor offered Spike's mother a kind smile. "I don't want to give you any sort of false hope, but he made it through the night, and the swelling looks like it's going down. We're cautiously optimistic that he'll pull through."

Greg saw her lip trembling with emotion. "Thank you. Thank you, Doctor," she said with a soft, quavering voice. One of her hands gently grasped Spike's, while the other almost clutched at Greg's; he offered her a reassuring squeeze.

Something in his own chest unclenched. It wasn't over yet, but there was light on the horizon.

"We're here, Spike." Greg smiled with only a little tightness, and set his free hand softly on Spike's shoulder. "We're right here."

* * *

Little Bobby slouched in the NCIS interrogation room, his feet perched insolently on the table. He lived up to his moniker - he was only about five foot five, all told. Gibbs could have broken him in half with his little finger. His defiant smirk was marred somewhat by the livid, darkening bruises and swelling on his face; someone really had managed to land some good blows on him. It hadn't exactly improved his features, nor his attitude. As Gibbs stalked into the room, he rudely shoved the punk's feet off the table before sitting down opposite him.

Scoffing, Little Bobby sat up and leaned back in his chair. "What, Five-O can't find any way to frame me, so they call in CSI?" he smugly mocked them. He really _did_ have one of those faces. "I'm telling you, me'n Tommy, we didn't do nothing wrong!"

Gibbs folded his hands and fixed a steady gaze on the diminutive criminal and said nothing.

His target squirmed slightly under his relentless stare, but remained uncooperative. "Yo, what's this all about, anyway? I told those cops I'd never seen that stuff before! Why are CSI dudes interrogating me, anyway? I didn't do nothing!"

Right on cue, Tony entered the interrogation room and dramatically dropped the evidence box on the table. The thump jarred Little Bobby, nearly causing him to lose his balance in his chair.

"That's _NCIS_, not _CSI_, jack-ass," Tony corrected him nonchalantly.

"Whatever, man," Little Bobby muttered.

"It stands for 'Naval Criminal Investigative Service.' Me, well, I'm just here to give you a little free legal advice. You know, Bobby, like when you try to use someone else's credit card to pay for your trip to the ER, you _gotta_ make sure that the name on the credit card matches the name on the fake ID," DiNozzo advised the punk in a casual, almost sympathetic tone. "I know. It's a bit confusing, all those stolen cards. It's easy to get mixed up: which ones are yours, which ones you stole. But that wasn't even your first mistake that night, Bobby."

Gibbs coolly opened the evidence box and pulled several evidence bags, containing a heavy-duty watch, a cell phone, and a wallet. The wallet was open, revealing an official ID for one Constable Michelangelo Scarlatti of the Toronto Metropolitan Police Department.

Now it was Gibbs's turn to smirk, though there was not even the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. "If you'd looked at this before you got picked up at the hospital, even _you_ might have noticed that the man you assaulted and robbed was a _cop_," he said icily, speaking for the first time.

Their suspect's face ran through a succession of emotions, from confusion to surprise, followed by horror and a pathetic attempt to hide his sudden fear. He wasn't nearly as bright as he thought he was. "Hey, you can't pin that on me! I only found that stuff! I was gonna turn it in to the police before they arrested me!" he protested in a feeble attempt to maintain the unconcerned front. He was already changing his story, and not very well.

"You thought it was a great plan, didn't you, Bobby?" Tony took up the narrative again, still speaking casually. "You and your buddy Tommy would lurk in an alley, wait for someone to pass by, and then he'd pretend to beat you up while you called for help. A Good Samaritan gets lured down the alley to save you, only to have the tables turned when you hit him on the head with a pipe. While he's out cold, you two rob him. Only things didn't exactly go according to plan this time, did they?" DiNozzo continued as he circled the table. "The guy who came to your 'rescue'? A Canadian SWAT officer."

"Constable Michelangelo Scarlatti." Reaching into the evidence box, Gibbs pulled out Scarlatti's photo and set it on the table. In full uniform and at the peak of health, the officer with his cheerful smile barely resembled the pallid form they had pulled from the dumpster and now lay clinging to life in a hospital bed.

"And he actually broke Tommy's nose before you managed to knock him out!" Tony winced in false sympathy. "Ouch. That must've hurt. And your night only got worse from there. A _second_ person saw you and tried to intervene."

"And you killed him," Gibbs concluded, locking the criminal with eyes like shards of ice.

"What?" Little Bobby angrily objected as he jumped violently to his feet. "I didn't _kill_ nobody!"

"Sit. Down," ordered Gibbs coldly. The suspect froze under his gaze and slowly fell back into the chair, swallowing tensely. Gibbs took another photo from the box and placed it next to Scarlatti's. Little Bobby's face turned slightly green at the sight of the bloody body, and the empty, clouded eyes staring at nothing.

"Not so easy to look at your handiwork in daylight, is it? His name was Seaman Julio Ramirez," Gibbs said, placing Ramirez's file photo next to the crime scene photo. "He was a Navy computer technician from California. He wanted to be a cop one day, so when he saw you and Cassidy throwing a body into a dumpster, he did exactly the same thing that Constable Scarlatti did. He tried to do the right thing. And you killed him for it."

Little Bobby's lips twisted, and his throat bobbed nervously. "Look, CSI dude, I told you, I didn't kill _nobody_. All I know is that me and Tom, we were walking down the alley, and this dude here attacked us for no reason! He was crazy, man! So we were only defending ourselves, you see? But we didn't kill nobody! Look at this!" He pointed at his banged-up face as evidence. There was, however, no sympathy for him to find in either of the two agents. "That's what this dude did to me! He assaulted _us_, man! But we didn't kill him! The dude was alive and screaming bloody murder when we split," he babbled anxiously.

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You _left_ _him_ with a subdural haematoma," Tony chuckled with fake friendliness, a wide but empty smile on his face. "He might've been on his feet when you and your buddy Tommy ran away, but, you see, he was already bleeding on his brain from some lucky blow to his skull. Despite that, he _still_ might've survived if he'd gotten to a hospital right away. He probably passed out almost immediately after you left him there, but he couldn't've called for help anyway because you'd smashed his phone against the wall."

"He was left to die in an alley three thousand miles from home, just a few feet from the man he was trying to help. A man you dumped like _garbage_!" Gibbs yelled, smacking his hand down on Scarlatti's photo on the table.

"You can't prove none of this!" Little Bobby licked his lips, his eyes darting about as he tried to find some avenue for escape.

Gibbs pulled the length of pipe out of the box and slammed it down on the table next to the wallet. Little Bobby visibly flinched in his chair. "Your prints on the weapon used to assault Constable Scarlatti," Gibbs stated harshly. "How could they get there if you were just minding your own business?"

"I don't know, man! We go through that alley a lot! Maybe, maybe I-I-I touched it sometime, you know? We didn't smack no cop, and we didn't whack that crazy dude!" Little Bobby protested.

But his voice caught in his throat when Gibbs held up one more item, gleaming in the pale light. The bold inscription on the wristband was now as plain as day, standing out in accusation.

"This belongs to Constable Scarlatti." His voice was quiet again, but full of menace, as he leaned towards Little Bobby. "It's a keepsake to remember one of his teammates killed in the line of duty. But when we found it, it was in _Seaman Ramirez's_ hand. You took it along with everything else you stole from Scarlatti. You probably couldn't hock it for more than a few bucks anyway, but some people, people like you, well, you can't resist anything shiny." He smiled all the friendliness of a shark closing for the kill. "You stole it while Scarlatti was unconscious, but then Ramirez showed up, and he managed to grab it back."

The suspect shrugged, desperate for some way, any way to wriggle out of the hole in which he was trapped. "Maybe _he_ stole it from the other guy!" he suggested. "He was crazy, man!"

"Oh, did we forget to mention the best bit?" DiNozzo clapped a hand on Little Bobby's shoulder, making him jump in surprise. "Before we collected your sorry ass from D.C. Metro, my buddies Tim and Ziva, they spent most of the night back at that alley. But let me tell you," he waggled a finger at the suspect, "they thought it was worth it when they discovered the brand-spanking-new security camera on the building across the street facing the alley."

"Smile, Bobby - you're on Candid Camera." Gibbs's eyes coldly nailed the suspect where he sat. They had him.

The diminutive criminal folded his arms defensively. It was a useless gesture. He was well and truly caught, and the terrible realization was just starting to sink in. "Yo, I want my lawyer now, man."

"Yeah. Thought you might," Gibbs replied.


	11. Chapter 11

_Spike found himself standing in an alley. Looking around, he already knew it as the same alley in Washington D.C. where he was attacked, but it was supernaturally bright, as if someone had polished everything, from the asphalt to the garbage, to a brilliant shine. For an indeterminate amount of time, he stood there alone, just staring absently around him._

_"So, why'd you come back here?" someone behind him suddenly asked. "Lookin' for something?"_

_He didn't turn around, but he recognized the voice, even though he'd heard it just once: a few words, spoken in anger and fear and protectiveness. "I don't know," Spike confessed to the unseen figure. "I don't even know your name. Didn't even see your face."_

_The other person laughed; it was a cheerful, happy sound, the sort that made you want to laugh right along with it. _

_"Ah, don't feel bad. Names really aren't all that important in the grand scheme of things," the stranger remarked. "It's who we are and the choices we make, that's what really counts." Spike could sense the man coming closer, almost touching him. "Case in point, my friend. It wasn't your fault I died. I chose to come here, to help you. Free will, man. It's an amazing, wonderful, terrible thing."_

_Spike cast his eyes down to the gleaming asphalt. "I don't deserve this; I never did. My friend Lou, he did the same thing you did, you know? Died to save me." His voice trembled with emotion. There was too much inside him, too much to properly express in words._

_"Hey, love and friendship aren't about what we _deserve_. But I'm pretty sure you already knew that," the other man replied kindly, laying comforting hand on Spike's shoulder. The weight there was warm and felt more real and present than anything else in that moment. "Lou, he had a choice, too, man. And he chose to lay down his life for his friend."_

_"I know," Spike sighed deeply. Those terrible few seconds had been burned into his memory: Lou's final tearful assurances that everything was going to be okay, just a few ragged breaths before he deliberately stepped off the landmine. "So why'd _you_ do it, anyway? Why'd you try to save me? You didn't even know me."_

_"You really need me to answer that question, man? You, of all people?" the unseen voice retorted, dancing with laughter. "Well, I guess my _mamá_ just raised me right. I told you, I made my choice. So did you, the night we met. What are the chances? Two total strangers, far away from home, brought together, for the same reason, in the same alley one night?"_

_"Ma would call it Providence." Spike's limbs started to feel heavy, and he blinked his eyes, trying to keep them open. The strange light that had filled the alley began to fade rapidly. "You know, I'd've liked to've known you sometime," he said softly._

_"_Vaya con Dios_, my friend," the other man whispered in his ear before the light vanished completely._

* * *

Spike gradually became aware of a steady beeping sound somewhere in the blackness that surrounded him.

And there was another sound, the sound of voices. People talking. Who were they? They seemed so familiar... His fog-filled mind tried to match them to names, to faces.

"He looks so pale," someone was saying. "My sweet boy..." His mother, it was his mother's voice, he was sure of it. But he couldn't find her in the darkness, and she sounded so sad...

_"Ma, dove sei?"_ he tried to say, but his mouth was so dry it came out a nearly inaudible mumble. Suddenly, he felt a pressure on his hand. His fingers twitched in answer.

"Mikey, oh Mikey! Thank God! I'm here, _sono qui accanto a te_, Michelangelo," he heard his mother cry from far away. He concentrated on that beautiful, familiar sound and latched onto it like a rappel line, riding it towards the source. The suffocating blackness lifted a bit, and he realized his eyes were closed.

"Spike? Spike, it's okay, we're here," reassured another familiar voice, powerful but calming. "It's good to hear your voice, Spike!"

Spike swallowed back the sudden rush of emotions, but tears burned under his lids as he licked his dry, cracked lips. Never had he felt so safe, so protected, so loved, as in this moment.

"Yours... too... Boss..." he carefully enunciated, his voice barely more than a gasp, as he slowly opened his eyes.

* * *

The courtroom was packed near to bursting - sailors, cops, civilians, reporters; it seemed like the entire world had crammed itself into this one room. The story had caught the hearts and minds of the public, here in the States. Back in Toronto, a certain close-knit team of SRU officers crowded around a television, faces glued to the screen.

For Spike, the physical injuries from that night had all but vanished. His hair had grown back, completely covering the small scar left when the stitches were removed, and his memory, initially fuzzy and blurred, had quickly returned, full force. He'd gone home, back to Toronto and his friends. His recovery time was impressively brief, all things considered. And the team had thrown him a party, complete with cake and streamers and good-natured teasing, the day he rejoined them at the SRU.

_Michelangelo Scarlatti, what were you thinking?_, Ed had asked him with the biggest grin he'd ever worn. _Just doin' my job_, Spike had said, to which the Boss had wryly replied, _And where've we heard _that_ before?_

Today, however, found him back in the United States. This was a day that Spike had looked forward to with grim anticipation. He glanced over at the defendants' table. Despite the overwhelming evidence against them, the two weasels still refused to confess, to take responsibility for their actions that fateful night. 'Little Bobby' and his buddy Tom dressed up in suits and ties now, attempting to present a civilized, dignified appearance to the court. But Spike could see the truth beneath that facade. Underneath, they were just a couple of low-life punks, trying desperately to worm out of the consequences for their crimes.

Sometimes, it wasn't about vast conspiracies, or terrorist attacks, or murderous rampages. Sometimes, it was just a matter of a few bucks and a simple cruelty and disregard for human life.

He caught the eyes of a silver-haired man near the front of the court. He'd met Special Agent Gibbs briefly before returning to Toronto; the man had a quiet, smoldering intensity that commanded respect, and he reminded Spike of both the Boss and Ed. Agent Gibbs had pulled him aside and told him about the young sailor who had died only feet away from him.

_Seaman Julio Ramirez._ It was a strange, happy sort of pain to learn the name of the man who'd saved his life. They'd been in Washington for the same computer forensics conference - for all Spike knew, they could have passed right by each other throughout the week, without knowing.

But that night, the night they were both supposed to be flying home - Spike to Ontario, Seaman Ramirez to California - they both went for one last walk around the city. And they found each other in a dark alley in Washington, D.C.

Sitting proudly next to Gibbs was Spike's mother. Despite all of Spike's protests, she had insisted on coming back here with him for the trial before she returned to her native Italy to live with relatives. His ma always did as she pleased, in the end, no matter what he said.

Spike stepped into the the witness box, his head held high. _This is for you_, he thought. Seaman Ramirez, the young sailor who dreamed of becoming a cop. Lou Young, the friend who laughed and joked with him. Even his dad, who desperately wanted for him to leave the SRU, not understanding that it wasn't just a job or a game for Spike. But most especially, this was for himself.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" the court clerk asked him.

"I do."

**The End.**

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read this story. It gives me great pleasure to know there are people out there who enjoyed the story, so, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for reading.


End file.
